


Outlawed Miracles

by paragraph (ebcdic)



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Body Shots, Covert Operation, Frottage, Guns, M/M, Passive-aggression, Sharing a Room, Tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebcdic/pseuds/paragraph
Summary: Sam is smiling at him like they're meeting in a bar or a café or any other venue you can find in the rough definition of something called civilization. Michael narrows his eyes a bit, studies Sam for a second, and decides he's harmless.





	Outlawed Miracles

Michael is somewhere in Kunar Province, Afghanistan. More specifically, hiding in a cave; less specifically, one of many caves which could be anywhere within the entire province. A few hours ago, he had lost most of his possessions when a convoy of trucks full of weapons he was pretending to buy to front an illegal military operation in Nigeria from his new-found "friends" was suddenly hit with heavy artillery. Said friends ran for the hills not long thereafter, leaving Michael behind with the half-dead driver of the Jeep at the front of the line, who doesn't speak any of the five languages he's fluent in and even if he did, wouldn't be much help. So Michael grabs what he can and gets the hell out of there. 

Two days later and he's running low on water, sanity and options. It's either, start walking or hope that someone, anyone comes through the same pass. Neither option is all that appealing considering that the odds on both are pretty good that he'll end up dead. Then again, if he stays here much longer, he'll die anyway. 

He starts walking east because that's the general direction of "how to get out of this country."

**

Help, such as it is, comes in the form of some federal agent or other coming back from making a delivery of something to Pakistan. Michael knows he's a fed because all of them pretty much look alike, even without the cheap suits. He expects the guy to get on his sat-comm and call someone for back-up before getting anywhere near Michael, but instead, he just pulls up alongside him.

"Need a ride?"

The whole thing is suspicious because nothing in Michael's life is ever easy, but he jumps in the Jeep anyway. He may not have a gun, but he does have a shard of the wreckage from the explosion hidden in his clothing and he will use it if it comes to that. 

"You look like shit," the fed comments.

Michael doesn't say anything because that's what he's been trained to do. Maybe this guy isn't a fed. He could be anyone with an interest in guns or caves or military operations or rebel forces or natural resources given to the highest bidder.

"I'm Sam, by the way."

Sam is smiling at him like they're meeting in a bar or a café or any other venue you can find in the rough definition of something called civilization. Michael narrows his eyes a bit, studies Sam for a second, and decides he's harmless. 

"I'm Michael."

Again with the smile. It's starting to make Michael twitch.

**

Sam takes him to some half-abandoned bunker that is only slightly closer to civilization than Michael's cave. This place at least has bottled water and a generator, which is a major upgrade. There's even a cot, although it doesn't look much more comfortable than the floor. 

"Welcome to Margaritaville," Sam says as he dumps some equipment on a metal table.

Michael raises an eyebrow at that and then smiles just a bit when he spots a bottle of tequila and a blender. "That the official name?"

"Nah, bunch of boring acronyms. I'm sure you know us feds like that sort of thing," Sam laughs.

"Feds?" Michael blinks a few times as though he's shocked by this news.

He gets an eye roll for his trouble. "Like you didn't figure that out from thirty klicks."

"Maybe," Michael says with a shrug. No sense in making more enemies out here; especially enemies who have a military background.

Sam slouches in the metal chair next to the table and looks him up and down. "I'm guessing you're an operative. Probably were in that conga line bringing guns in and out of this place. Must've been with them when they got blown to high hell. Lucky you made it out of there."

Michael wants to ask why no one got him out if they knew about that, but he doesn't because it gives too much away. He just shrugs again and Sam lets him get away with it.

**

For the next few days, Michael sleeps and eats and tries to figure out who Sam really is without actually asking him. Meanwhile, Sam goes about doing whatever he's out here to do and seems to forget that Michael is in the same eight by ten concrete room as him. Despite the fact that Michael has patience in spades, this combined with needing to get the fuck on with his job, starts to get on his nerves, so he randomly hums, moves Sam's stuff around while he's sleeping, and wakes him up by turning up the volume on an empty channel on the sat-comm to an ear-splitting level. 

Apparently, the final straw for Sam is the sudden departure of one Jose Cuervo.

"Fucking passive-aggressive bitch," Sam mutters after an hour of looking for the bottle.

Michael grins, but doesn't give up Jose's secret location. He knew that shard of metal would come in handy.

**

Two days after that, Michael wakes up when he feels something cool touch his stomach. He lies still and looks through his lashes to assess the situation. The situation is Sam on his knees next to the cot, pouring tequila in his belly button. Michael is pretty sure his training never covered this.

"I know you're awake, Michael," Sam says with a hint of smugness. 

"How'd you find the bottle?" Michael asks as he closes and then opens his eyes, hoping that the image before him will have changed. It doesn't.

Sam places his hands on Michael's hips and leans down to lick the alcohol away. Michael shivers despite himself. Sam's hands are warm against his skin, holding him in place as his tongue snakes its way up Michael's belly to his chest and neck before Sam's teeth nip his earlobe.

"You're not as impenetrable as you think," Sam murmurs as he presses his thigh against Michael's half-hard cock. 

Michael laughs softly and then pulls Sam's hips flush against his own and grinds up into him until they're both gasping. When Sam's hands go for Michael's pants, Michael flips them over and gives Sam a toothy grin.

"Maybe, but you won't find out unless you get me the fuck out of here."

Sam stares at him for a second as if waiting for Michael to change his mind, finally sighs and waves toward the sat-comm. "Channel 9."

Half a day and one bottle of tequila later and Michael is on his way to some former Soviet Bloc country where he gets to pretend he's a rich playboy who likes to collect stolen art used to fund terrorist groups. His contact is such an annoying prick that he almost misses Sam. Almost.


End file.
